


From Under Big Wings

by LoondeLune



Series: The Life and Times of Wayne Manor [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jason and Dick are brothers and Bruce is their adoptive father yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 21:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoondeLune/pseuds/LoondeLune
Summary: One boy is born on the tight ropes while the other is born on the streets. Both are raised under the Bat.The boy has nightmares, visions of his mother haunt his dreams. But he is safe. Now, he is safe.Until the ticking of the clock sets off.





	From Under Big Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Canonical character death. Mostly canon with some divergence. TW for mentions of drug use with Catherine Todd and implications of neglect. 
> 
> Big shoutout to yellowqiant for putting up with my Maxium Angst™ (ily)

_The acrobat_

A boy flips and spins from a trapeze feeling free like a bird on the wind, smile threatening to split his face wide open in sheer exhilaration. He does not know pain, he does not know suffering. His parents are alive and well and they love him.

The boy stands tall, chest puffed out in pride. The circus is his home and his family is big, though not all families are related by blood. He stands atop the platform, smiling wide and waving enthusiastically at the crowd, watches and waits as his parents soar through the air; soon he will join them. This is the biggest high and it courses through his blood.

Something snaps, or something falls, a grip is lost, and they're going down, down, down. The crowd gasps and a boy breaks. His face falls and his heart crumbles, the rush of adrenaline receding and sinking deep in his gut, plummeting into the abyss of shock and horror. Wetness stain his cheeks, his eyes burn, and is there a hole in the tent? Is it raining?

Oh, it's him.

He realizes he's crying, reaches a shaking hand up, trembling fingers collecting fat droplets of salty tears. His throat feels raw like he's been screaming, maybe he has, and he's still on the platform. He's high, too high, he doesn't think he'll ever get down again, but he's never longed for solid ground beneath his feet before.

The world is silent, devoid of all sound save for his own wrecked breathing. His vision narrows, his legs shake, he's shaking, he's cold, his face his burning, he's hot, hot, too hot.

His parents are dead.

***

He's a ward of the bat! The bat! The bat!

It's his favorite song! He's a ward of the bat!

It's been a while since his parents died; he doesn't know how long. Time stopped all at once. A man in a suit offered him a new life. He liked his old life. He liked his parents. He missed them, his heart ached with how much he missed them.

Fear. It's potent. It stops your legs from moving forward, secures its hands around your throat, squeezes tight making sure no words, no scream, no sound, will come out. He’d never been afraid of heights, couldn't fathom fearing flying through the air. He'd never thought he'd see his parents fall to their deaths.

A man in a suit takes him in. He teaches him to overcome his fear. Tells the boy he can use his skills for a greater purpose, helps him hone and refine those skills into flawless fighting techniques, mentors the boy, houses the boy, cares for the boy. He feels light again.

Like a bird on the wind.

And time moves forward again.

_ Six years later: The street rat _

Shadows creep and crawl through every dark corner of Crime Alley, its tendrils wrapping around every living soul. A boy walks home in the slums, to a house with a woman whose eyes have gone lifeless, limbs limp with the rush of opioids, to a man whose never quite here nor there. The boy is skinny, dirty, hungry, God he's hungry. He knows pain, he knows suffering; they weave themselves into his mind. His mother loves him, though maybe not as much as she loves the prick of a needle, of powder that shimmers like snow.

He reads and plays and tries to be like other little boys his age but he is not like those other boys. He feels foul, like the stench that covers the city. His mother nearly dies, too often, too many times to count. They nearly lose the cramped, run-down apartment to crime lords, too often, too many times to count. He is lonely, he is scared.

He runs.

He tries to hide.

A man in a suit finds him. He is the Bat, the tall, dark figure that slinks between shadows and moonlight, blood staining his gloves but never enough, never enough. He is not a bad boy, really he's not. He tries to be good. Food and money are scarce so he finds it however he can, through any means necessary.

Fear.

He is afraid. He lives his life in a dull state of fear that gnaws at his insides and crawls through his skull, pounding, pounding, pounding away, relentless, ceaseless. His belly is empty. His home is broken. His heart is torn.

The Bat captures him and the boy fears; it is the most pure, genuine fear he's ever felt in his short life, pumping his blood harder and faster. Tales of the Bat have floated through Crime Alley for years, longer than the boy has been alive. Thugs fear the Bat, the thugs that threaten and terrify the boy.

Kindness.

Compassion.

They are foreign words to the boy. He has not tasted them on his tongue, has not felt them in his heart, and oh! How his heart _yearns_ for those simplest of words.

And joy.

Joy.

The Bat saves the boy, offers him a new chance at life, tells his mom everything will be okay and the boy believes him. For the first time he trusts. He has never known trust; deceit and lies and betrayal are tattooed into his skin from the broken needles and tainted ink of others. The Bat has resources, he helps his mom, finds her a good place he assures, a good place. He takes the boy under his wing.

The boy feels safe.

***

Of course stories of the Bat also come with the energetic and big-mouthed Boy Wonder. He found himself afraid of the boy as well, but in a different sense than the man. The hallway in which he stood was cold, the weathered butler at his side looking bored and statuesque. He kept sneaking glances to see if the older man was even breathing; he was.

The door adjacent to him was cracked, warm light filtering out from hot flames contained behind the glass casing of a fireplace. Their voices filtered out, the man’s low and deep, the older boy’s higher pitched yet equally quiet.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump. Thump._

_Thump, thump, thump._

_Thump, thump, thump, thump-_

With each agonizing second, his heart beat more erratically in his chest, the hallway closing in on him, the darkness wrapping its slimy tendrils around his mind. He'd gotten used to straining his ears; mother would try to hide things from him, she thought she was keeping him safe, or maybe she was ashamed that their last dime was being squandered on a hot spoon and a syringe.

“…you think?”

Silence.

It stretched on, on, on, he couldn’t breathe, the air was stifling, on and on the silence stretched, on and on and on-

A heavy hand on his shoulder. He followed it to the arm of the butler, then up further to his old, crinkly face, a face that gave nothing away, no emotion, yet he felt warmth in that bored expression, felt it in the squeeze of his fingers.

“A little brother?”

A sigh. “Yes, I'm planning on adopting him soon.”

A pause.

“Hm.”

“I know this is sudden.”

Another pause.

He can't hear the response; he tries to subtlety lean forward, stretch his neck, crane his ear, but the firm grip on his shoulder puts a stop to his movements. Their voices have become more subdued, as if they knew, somehow, that he was hanging on their every word.

Bright light accosts his eyes as the door is flung open. The man stands there before him, daunting, and he shrinks back just a bit, hoping for the wall to swallow him up whole. Then the man moves forward, slowly, carefully, like he's some kind of street rat that must be approached with caution, and isn't that a perfect description really?

He crouches down on his knees, gets eye level with him. He can't help but think that his nice pretty suit would get wrinkled by being on the floor like that, and his worth isn't nearly as much as the cost of one designer suit. The butler releases his grip, silently moves across the hall to stand by the open doorway. A violent shudder rips through him at the sudden loss of presence that had grounded him just moments ago.

_Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumthump_

“Jason.”

He looks up with startled eyes at the call of his name. When was the last time he'd heard it? He couldn't remember. Mother stopped calling him her “little Jay” a long time ago; she spoke of him as a ghost, saying “you, come here” and “aren't you just a pretty boy? Now go clean up for mama.” But, oh, his name, his name! Tears stung his eyes, and oh, his name had never sounded more beautiful, like the herald call of angels. He felt human again.

The man took a breath, reached out a hand, patted his head. His hair was unkept, curls spilling out into his eyes, covering his ears. The man simply combed through what he could, trying not to get his large fingers stuck.

“Jason,” he started again, “would you like to stay here?”

He looked past the man into the open doorway where the older boy stood, staring, his head tilted slightly to the side, his hand slipped into the butler’s holding on tight. Then he smiled; a small thing, but it crinkled his eyes nonetheless, and was he just imagining things or did that boy just nod his head? Was this okay? Was he allowed this happiness? How long would it last?

So he looked back at the man one last time. Searched his face high and low. It was earnest and kind, he seemed genuine, and he wanted so badly to trust him just this once, just this once.

The tears fell as soon as he nodded his head, sliding down his cheeks in fat droplets. The man took his hand from his head to pull him close to his chest, wrapping him in the biggest, warmest hug he's ever known. A sob escaped his lips, then he couldn't stop, and he cried and cried and cried.

And Bruce held him as the older boy looked on fondly at his little brother.

***

Life at the manor was surreal. The apartment he'd left behind was cramped and dirty, littered with trash and Catherine’s withered body. He'd tried his best to keep it clean, but there was only so much a young child could do. The manor was the complete opposite; it was huge, the biggest building he'd ever seen! It was spacious and creepy yet homey all at the same time. He was fed, properly, with home-cooked meals made by the butler—Alfred was his name—that sat heavy in his belly, filling him up. His clothes no longer fell loosely on him; they were clean and fashionable and they fit him like they'd been tailored just for his body. They weren't because he'd felt too uncomfortable being measured. His small measly body with the bones poking out made him feel self-conscious compared to the taller, larger and leaner body of the Boy Wonder.

He knew he shouldn't compare. Dick was older than him after all, of course he would be bigger, but Jason was still the scrawny little street rat. It hadn't been long since he'd joined life at the manor, only officially being adopted today. But, he idolized the boy. He was lively and fun and cool and everything he’d read about in the magazines, everything he’d heard about on the streets. He flipped and spinned and kicked bad guy butt with his sharp tongue and sharper punches.

Eager to get home, he ran through the halls of the school, twisting his way through the crowd to the sleek black car that waited for him outside.

“Slow down, Master Jason,” Alfred intoned in his dry voice.

Jason grinned, toothy, his tongue sticking out the hole in his mouth where one of his baby teeth were missing. He hopped in the backseat of the car, buckling the seatbelt tight and pulled out the book he checked out at the library earlier. His door clicked shut, the driver side opening a moment later as Alfred slipped in and started the engine. He glanced in the review mirror before pulling off from the curb and heading towards home.

“What are we reading today?”

“The Tales of Despereaux.”

“You read such large books for your age, Young Master,” the old man responded fondly.

While his time at the manor had been short thus far, he had quickly found warmth embedded deep in the old man’s wrinkles, in the firm yet gentle grip of his hands, in the stern yet somehow soft set of his mouth.

To others the manor loomed ominously, but to him it was simply the place he called home. As soon as the car pulled up to the front porch, he unhooked the seatbelt and flung the car door open, taking the steps two at a time, bursting through the front door.

“Master Jason, slow down,” Alfred called.

He let his backpack slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor, kicking off his shoes at the door and padded through the immaculately decorated foyer to the living room, his nose stuck in his book. He was never allowed to be so carefree at his old home. Walking around barefoot was dangerous, broken glass and discarded shards of metal strewn across the floor, ready to prick and burn soft skin. Comfort came easily in the presence of the manor and it's occupants; comfort that settled deep in his achy heart.

The manor seemed eerily quiet, the silence prickling his ears. His feet stopped, his eyes daring to glance up at the empty hallway as his heart raced on. He did not like the quiet. Mother had taught him to be fearful of silence, a knee-jerk reaction; in the noiselessness of the apartment, she would be curled in the the bathroom, elbows bent in on themselves, breathing shallow and nearly nonexistent.

“Hello?”

His voice seemed to echo all around him, the sound crowding in his eardrums and bouncing around tumultuously. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, pounding, pounding, pounding.

_Thump._

Hushed tones came from the kitchen and he found his feet cautiously carrying his wayward body towards them. He entered the threshold and his heart soared and flipped and flew away, higher, higher.

A bright colorful banner hung from the center of the room, hand-painted in blues and yellows and greens that read: Welcome to the Family! He felt his breath stole away from his lungs, escaped through parted lips in wonderstruck expression. Bruce and Dick stood tying balloons, Alfred entering to place a small cake in the center of the table.

“Jay!”

Dick abandoned his balloon duties to run towards him, tackling him in a hug and giggling. His laughter was infectious and soon he found his own arms wrapped around the older boy, returning his hug, squeezing tight, his light bubbly laughter bringing tears to his eyes.

He lay on the floor, his soul feeling free, as he looked up at Bruce and Alfred, the two men smiling on at the happy boys.

The laughter overcame the silence.

***

Whereas comfort was a luxury he rarely tasted before, here it came in leaps and bounds, and he hoped and wished and prayed that he wouldn't take it for granted. He lay snuggled up in bed, blankets pulled up to his chin, the soft glow of his lamp illuminating Bruce’s face as he sat next to him on the bed. A steaming mug of tea was placed thoughtfully on the bedside table by Alfred; something warm to soothe him to bed after an exciting day. He'd never been so cared for.

He watched carefully, trying to remember the lines of Bruce’s face as he read his favorite bedtime story; the one with the little boy and the adventure and the beasts that gobble you up! (But they're not beasts, not really, just a playful imagination). Dick hopped around the room, play-acting as the little boy in the book, multicolored socks on his hands with googley eyes glued on to play the beasts.

He watched until his eyes grew heavy and a yawn was ripped from his mouth, his body sinking further into the blessedly cozy blankets. His mind was foggy, his eyes hazy, but he continued to watch as Bruce tucked him in, patting his head gently, murmuring good night with the softest expression he'd ever seen on the man. Dick propped himself up on the other side of the bed, placed a gentle peck to his forehead and assured him that his big brother would keep him safe from any monsters.

Jason felt so safe and comfortable and so extremely warm that he believed him.

He believed him until the nightmares came. Of course, what was he thinking? Even though Bruce had taken him in, adopted him, called him his own. Even though Dick cooed and teased and watched over him, called him his little brother, his friend. Every time he closed his eyes at night, the shadows crept in, coiled around him stealing his breath, his words, his life.

Behind closed eyelids he watched himself as if out of body as he stumbled upon his mother’s corpse. She lay slumped over the bathtub, chest still and pulseless, arms riddled with track marks and bruises. A half used syringe rolls towards him, the glass colliding loudly with the tile, and it bumps his toe accusingly as if to say “you did this.” He cannot tell himself this is not true as he is not entirely sure he himself believes those words.

Hot tears fall from his face as a scream rips through him. It's strangled and garbled; he's used to quieting his voice so as not to disturb anyone. He never wanted to be a burden to his mother, and so he would smile and nod and try to be a “good” little boy just like she said she wanted him to be in her blitzed out state. He frees a hand from his blanket cocoon. His body is hot and the salty tears sting his face, creating scorch marks as they tumble down in rapid succession. He presses the heel of his hands into his eyes, presses, _hard_ , to try and get them to stop, stop, just stop!

The blanket is ripped off him in an instant and suddenly two small hands are cupping his face and he thinks he can hear some kind of sound, words maybe, but he's not sure. His vision is blurry, and the tears won't stop, they won't stop, and now he's shaking and it's getting harder to breathe.

“Jay!”

He hears his name. It's his name and not his name. He always hated it when his mother called him that. “Just call me Jason,” he would beg. She would forget. She always forgot.

“Jay, it's okay I'm here,” the voice says.

It sounds familiar, and he finds that he doesn't quite hate the nickname as much when this person says it.

“Dick, let me.”

This voice is deeper, gravelly, worn. It sounds pained and tired and like it's been put through too much and, oh God, is it his fault, did he put this person through too much? He just wanted to be a good boy like his mother said, he's always wanted to be a good boy, a good boy.

Strong arms wrap around him, cradle his tiny body, and carries him away. He can faintly hear the pitter-patter of several feet walking through the old halls then suddenly he's outside and the sky is open above him and he can breathe again. The arms shift his weight and they're sitting down, Bruce on the porch and Jason in his lap. Dick sits next to them, loops and arm through one of Bruce’s and looks up at the starry sky. They sit like that for a while, no one speaking, just breathing and watching and listening. Slowly his heart settles back into a normal rhythm, and he hadn't noticed it beating so hard before but it was choking him. He curls into Bruce, lays his little hand over his chest, feels for his heart, places his little ear over it too, listens for it. He times his breathing with Bruce’s and suddenly he feels safe again, rooted in reality.

“Look, there's Orion's Belt,” Dick says softly.

He looks up and follows his gaze. There is no moon tonight so the stars shine unusually bright. There are millions, billions, trillions of stars. He can't even fathom how many there must be, but they look like dazzling jewels strung up in midnight colored tresses.

“And,” Dick sticks his tongue out to the side, thinking, his eyes searching, then,” there's the Big Dipper, and that one is the Little Dipper.”

He points out two more string of stars. They continue like this for a few minutes; Dick quietly naming constellations, his hold on Bruce’s arm ever present, yet at some point he had reached his hand just a bit farther over to clasp onto his own. After a while he starts pointing out stars on his own asking Dick to name them. Dick can't always of course, so when he can't he makes up ridiculous names of his own and soon the two boys are laughing, their faces bright and all traces of terror slowly being etched away.

Bruce stays quiet through it all. His arms stay sure and steady around him; he holds him close, looks up at the sky, and his eyes look strange. He doesn't have a name for their emotion, but Bruce is slowly rocking him back and forth, and sleep soon succumbs him once again.

He is safe.

_Several years later_

He's Robin, he's Robin! He's Robin! He's Robin and being Robin gives him magic!

It is his mantra, it is his siren call. He loves being Robin. He thinks back on all the years he wanted and waited for someone to save him. Then Bruce had appeared like a godsend, a fallen angel on dark wings. He wants to be like that for his fellow street rats of Gotham, hurt the bad guys, the bad guys that hurt him, save lives, give the people hope.

Dick had slowly been worn down by his incessant begging. He helped to train him. Taught him balance to counter his speed. He told him he didn't need to be taught the detective work, that it would come to him naturally. When he would puff out his cheeks and pout, worried that he was being cheated on his training time, Dick would laugh and say “c’mon little wing, you've always got your nose in a book so you're smart enough as is.”

He would beam and smile then repeat the process all over again if only to receive more praise. He'd grown into his role as the little brother. To a kid who barely had a mother, gaining a brother along with a father was a blessing. He did everything he could to make Dick and Bruce proud. So he would stay home if his homework wasn't finished, leaving Bruce to patrol on his own. It stung; being a hero was the most euphoric feeling in the world, bounding from rooftop to rooftop, and he knew why Dick was an acrobat in his previous life, why he continued to soar through the sky. But, he knew his brother would be more proud of him if he continued to excel in his schoolwork, and wouldn't he make a bigger difference, be able to help more people if he understood the world better?

He thought he'd seen all the horrors of the world as a child. Crime Alley was tough enough on a kid with two parents let alone a kid with an absentee father and a mother with a taste for the sweet life. Sometimes he preferred to stay home where it was safe and secure, his nose crammed into a textbook, solving complex problems on his homework, rather than be out in the cold cruel wold where smugglers and thieves and murderers lived. No one was safe in Gotham. He supposed that could be true for the rest of the world too, but it hurt somewhere deep inside that this place he called home was not welcoming to its inhabitants.

Somehow Dick always knew when he was feeling desolate. Being Robin gave him magic, but when faced with a man who desecrated a woman and got off scott-free, well sometimes he wondered just how effective his magic was. Was he too late to save her? He saw her swinging. Could he have gotten there sooner? The rope was taught.

Dick had offered to aid Bruce on patrol when he would stay home to study, even though he was no longer the Boy Wonder under Batman’s wing, even though he had his own friends, his own team, his own life and family outside of the manor. He never admitted it, but he was always filled with a tender warmth whenever Dick accompanied the old man; he was stoic and silent and brute but he was also lonely. He knew how much Bruce cared for Alfred and the two boys, knew that the reason he still carried the Bat mantle was in some part related to them, that somewhere along the line his motives for crime fighting had changed.

They were back earlier than usual. He was already tucked into bed, his homework filed away ready to turn in the next day, his mug of tea long since turned cold. Soft voices carried through the old vents of the manor, wafting into his ears. Then silence. He was still uncomfortable with the quietness of the night, although he'd learned to conquer his fears with the help of Dick and Bruce.

Footsteps, then the gentle crack of the door, light spilling into the room from the hallway reflecting on the window. Dick pokes his head in, whispers gently into the night.

“You awake?”

Blankets rustle then fall to the floor as he slides out of bed and pads over to his brother. Dick smiles, ruffles his hair, tilts his head to the side in a telltale sign to follow. They'd been following this tradition for years, ever since he'd had his first panic attack from the ghost of a nightmare. Dick led him up to the attic, out a window and onto the roof. They sat side by side in the cool air gazing up at a blackened sky. The moon was full tonight, dulling the stars and dimming their glow into an afterthought, yet still their eyes stayed trained to them. He could now identify more constellations than his brother, but he still allowed him to point them out. It was their tradition after all.

“I heard you had a tough night.”

His voice was low, quiet, but in the still of the night it sounded like a shout startling him. He hadn't had a rough night, not really, but then again Dick wasn't asking about tonight, and he didn't think he was clever enough to fool his brother so he nodded solemnly, turned his head away, avoided his gaze. The girl on the rope is still swinging.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, goes with the gravity of the pull until he is leaning against his brother. He is reminded of a moonless starry night years ago, when he was still just a boy calling the manor home for the first time.

“I think he's disappointed in me.”

The words are hushed like a confession. The stars are the best listeners for they do not judge; they simply continue to shine on, soft light gleaming brightly onto petty humans. His list of fears has changed and grown. He does not fear Bruce. The man is a kind father and takes care of him well. He has never doubted the veracity of his love. And yet. And yet, he fears the loss of Bruce, that one day he will wake up and change his mind, decide that taking him in was a mistake, was wrong, that he was better off on the streets where he belongs. He isn’t as good as Dick, knows he isn't as good as Dick, but he tries, God he tries and he tries and he tries. But he isn't as good. He isn't as good.

He wonders if in another life he becomes just like the criminals he tries so desperately to put away.

“He's not disappointed in you.”

The reply is equally as quiet. The silence had stretched on, he'd gotten lost in his thoughts. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, a bird trying to escape its wretched cage. He listens on, waits in bated breath for the continuation, any more words, just give him one more word.

“I think he's disappointed in himself.” He leans away to peer down at him, his eyes sad and thoughtful as a frown tugs at his mouth. It makes his heart ache from the force of its beating. He does not want to cause this expression on his brothers face, reminiscent of an similar look on Bruce's face under the same stars. “He wants better for you, Jay. Dad doesn't want you to turn out like him. He had a lot of anger as a kid and he sees the same in you. But, that's why you're Robin, so you can use that anger for good. Just don't grow up to become the Bat.”

He smiles down at him, squeezes his shoulder tight, and it's all meant to be reassuring but he wants the cry so badly with the weight of it all. All his life he'd believed he was never good enough, always a step behind from the rest, lagging sluggishly. His father wants better for him. His father does not want him to grow up to be like him. He can understand why; he'd never really wanted to grow up to be like him either. If he had to choose, he'd rather grow up to be like Dick, kind and silly and good. He wants to be good.

His heart swells under the full moonlight, fills with love and hope. Hope for a brighter future still. Hope for a kinder tomorrow.

***

He hadn't meant to find out, hadn't meant to stumble upon the information. But there it was, blatantly staring him in the face as if in a challenge. He'd gotten a taste, a morsel of a secret, just enough to feed the hunger of longing in him, his belly a bottomless pit.

Catherine Todd was out of rehab and sober for the first time since he left the rundown apartment festering with lost souls and shadows with lingering eyes. So, he sought her out, for the truth he told himself, and she confirmed. The longing burrowed deep into his bones, blossoming and growing into feasting thorns that dug and scratched at his skin, tearing his flesh into an idea.

Catherine Todd was not his mom.

She did not birth him and she hardly raised him, although he would always hold a tender place in his heart for the woman. There was someone else out there, someone who gave him up, or possibly he was taken from her. He'd come to love and cherish his family at the manor, truly he had, but there was a blood relation out there, someone he didn't know, who he could come to know. A family he found.

Bruce would try to stop him. Tell him to look at the facts before diving in. He was impulsive at times. This time was no different, the hunger settling deep into his stomach, an aching that would not be satiated. If Dick still lived there, if he knew was he was getting up to, he'd stop him in a heartbeat or try to join him. This was something he needed to do on his own though, this was his story to uncover.

Catherine Todd was not his mom. That meant his real mom was out there somewhere.

He'd used the skills Bruce taught him over the years. He wasn't as intuitive as Dick when it came to detective work, but he liked books and solving problems and he'd gotten better at it over the years, if he did say so himself. He wasn't as athletic but he was tenacious and hardworking, an intense rage building up, farther and farther, pushing him to the limits.

When he first came to the manor he'd been a scared little brat. Afraid of the dark, afraid of the quiet, afraid of the noise, afraid of his dreams. Scared, scared, scared, always scared. Then he was angry. Angry with his mom, angry with his dad, angry with his situation, even angry with Bruce at times, but mostly he was angry with himself. Angry that he wasn't strong enough, that he wasn't able to stop his mother before her habit took over their lives, that he wasn't astute enough to figure out his father’s shady dealings, that he let his anger consume him at times pushing him past the point of morality into a deeper, darker place. He worried that perhaps this darkness had been in him all along, waiting to take control.

His family gave him hope. Bruce was patient with him. Alfred cared for him like he cared for all of the Wayne's, like he cared for Dick. His brother loved him best of all. He'd accepted him with open arms, trained him before Bruce did, guided him. Dick sat with him on the roof as he worked through his thoughts, never prying, but there all the same, always with exactly the right words he needed to hear.

And he craved for more. He could taste the completion of his family, if only he could find her, he had to find her.

So he followed all the leads, alone. He was disappointed every time they lead nowhere, felt his gut clench tighter each time, his heart sink further into a tumultuous sea. His search led him halfway across the world and, oh, how he missed home. How he missed Alfred’s deep set wrinkles and weathered eyes that had seen too much, far too much for the kind old man, as he sat his favorite cup of tea on the bedside table. How he missed being sick and stuck at home, his school work finished but unable to go out on patrol, yet Bruce stayed home as well and they fell asleep on the couch together, blanket across their laps, a movie forgotten on the screen. How he missed his brother’s quick witted teasing, his hand buried deep in his thick curls as he ruffled his hair into an unrecognizable mess.

Yet he persisted. He thought he'd found what he was looking for. She was beautiful and everything he'd hoped she'd be. An aid worker, someone who helped the people, strived for a better tomorrow.

He found her! He found her, he found her!

He was overcome with joy.

Until he was overcome with dread.

_Thump._

_Tick._

_Thump. Thump._

_Tick. Tick._

He heard stories of course. Just like when he was a child, hearing tales of the Bat on the streets of Gotham, everyone also heard of him. Him. The crazy bastard with a wicked red grin. The smile stretched sickly across his ghastly face, his eyes wild and that laugh. The laugh echoed in his ears, bounced around his eardrums, reverberating in his brain.

_HA! HA! HA!_

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

_Thump_.

He'd been blackmailing her. It had probably all been a trap. They were obsessed with each other after all, and what better way to draw out the Bat than to trap his boy. He'd laid out all the clues, and he'd followed them like a bloodhound, ignoring everything else save for the scent of his mother. And he'd found her, oh, he found her.

He didn't blame her. She was an aid worker, for the people, a better tomorrow. He needed medical supplies and she was his supplier.

_Thump._

_Tick._

_HA! HA! HA!_

Pain.

He'd never been in so much pain. Was that his blood that stained the floor so thoroughly? The concrete floor of the warehouse ran rampant with red. He could hardly see, his eyes were swollen shut. The man, if he even was a man, that stood before him barely seemed out of breath, and he feared, he feared, he feared genuinely for the first time since he was a child out of breath and cowering beneath the Bat and the stars. Those beautiful stars. If he closed his eyes right now could he see them? His head hurt, throbbing madly, so he doubted it.

_Thump._

_Tick. Tick. Tick_.

Metal collided with concrete. The bloodied crooked crowbar lay before him, accusingly. The ticking was ominous, louder than the laughter, louder than the pulsating of blood that rushed from his rapidly beating heart. Red, red, everything was red.

His mother was strung up before him. His body ached, battered and bruised, every inch of skin feeling like an open wound, but he persisted. Right now he lived for her. He needed to save her, he desperately wanted to save her. He would be a good boy for her, his mother.

He moved, inch by inch, squirming in pain as he tried to reach her. His body screamed in protest. He ignored it, moving closer and closer.

_HA! HA! HA!_

“You just don't give up boy, do you?”

A hand was in his hair, yanked him backwards harshly, he heard the clang of metal against hardened surface before feeling the crack against his skull and the stars he longed to see swam into his vision. He was released, his body slamming with a thud. He thought he could hear crying, was it his own voice or his mother’s? He did not know if she would cry for him, she didn't know him well enough. Would Bruce cry for him? Would Dick? Was he worthy of their tears? He didn't think so anyway. Just look at the mess he'd gotten himself into, and for what?

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

_Ticktickticktickticktick-_

_Thump_.

White hot heat enveloped him. His body burned for a split second then he was free and he felt no more.

***

The man cradled the boy in his arms, weeping. He was too late, too late. The laughter echoed in the burned down building, planks of wood and shrapnel hanging from every which way, buried in the sand, in his body.

The man sank to his knees, the boy held close to his chest, sobs wracking though him as he begged him to come back, just come back.

The boy did not hear him.

***

Halfway across the world a boy’s heart breaks for the second time.

He does not know it yet.

**Author's Note:**

> i cried several times while writing this just so y'all know. 
> 
> yell at me on [tumblr](https://witchykoriandr.tumblr.com).


End file.
